


Heartstrings

by Schnickledooger



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Adventure, Dewey centric, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, slight peril, the ducklings are adorable I love them so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 16:01:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12461136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schnickledooger/pseuds/Schnickledooger
Summary: Dewey lifted hand to wave at them, to let them know he was all right. He even had the perfect line ready to use, one he had stored away for a moment just like this: the rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated. Only when he attempted to lift his hand, he seemed to have no energy so it flopped over Uncle Donald’s shoulder like a limp spaghetti noodle and Dewey stared at it in mild confusion. Oh wow, this is bad, he thought eerily calm. Then he stopped thinking because that hurt too much, shut his eyes and let cool relief of darkness sweep the pain away.Or, Dewey gets hurt in a cave-in, gets lost in strange fever dreams, and there is much Duck family feels and angst.Inspired by ch. 7 ofDucktober





	Heartstrings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RadarsTeddyBear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RadarsTeddyBear/gifts).



> For her wonderful drabblefic [ Ducktober](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12251205/chapters/27968919), specifically ch. 7 where Dewey is hurt and Dewey is my favorite, you can't leave a girl hanging like that imagining the ending, look where it's got me. I've spent sleepless nights over that chapter. My heart wtf
> 
> Also bless you, Radar, you are an angel for inspiring me to write. I haven't written in a long time.

Dewey woke briefly once or twice on the plane ride home, not by his own choice. A cargo plane was not the smoothest or quietest of vehicles, especially when its pilot happened to be Launchpad. They hit several pockets of air turbulence on the return journey causing the plane to jolt and shudder violently as well as dropping a few hundred feet without warning before Launchpad got the plane under control. The engines sputtered threatening to stall—Launchpad jerked the joystick around like he was playing a super intense game of Pac-Man and gave a hearty kick under the instrument panel. The engines roared back to life sounding like an angry dragon dragged out of slumber, just like Dewey.

Dewey’s head dropped off Donald’s shoulder sharply as the plane jolted again. The dull throbbing in his temple flared into white-hot pain as small pin-points of stars burst behind Dewey’s closed eyelids and a whimper worked its way out of his throat.

“Blasted barnacles, Launchpad, it would help the lad greatly if you didn’t attempt to barrel-roll this rusted-over iron contraption at every opportunity you get!” came Scrooge’s lilting voice in an agitated manner.

“No,” came another voice, belonging to the person whose lap he was resting on, whose hands were gently stroking the feathery tufts on top of his head. “It would have helped if you knew better than to leave the kids unsupervised in a dangerous location.”

“Ach, I turn my back for a few seconds and they all go scampering off even when I specifically told them not to leave my sight!” a bit of wounded pride had fallen into Scrooge’s tone. “I thought they all were of appropriate age to know when to listen to their elders. Tell me, what should I have done? Attach them all to leashes like animals!”

The soft hands had stopped their gentle stroking. Now they tightened around Dewey’s small form protectively. “They’re _children_ , Uncle Scrooge. They learn by example. If they wandered off it’s because _you_ gave them the impression if was safe to do so. You got distracted. What did you find that was so important in that cave that you forgot about the kids until it was almost too late?”

There was a sharp _tap_ as Scrooge smacked his silver-tipped cane onto the plane’s floor in a heated fury. “Don’t you _dare_ to sit there and accuse me of being an unfit guardian when I know for a fact that you can barely provide the means of living for these boys! How they survived all these years with a down-on-his-luck, washed-up beatnik like yourself is beyond me!”

A deep rumble, almost a hiss emerged from deep within the chest of person who cradled Dewey to his chest, gripping him more tightly than he should have at those words. “We didn’t need your help before. We don’t need it now. As soon as we land, we’re leaving.”

Someone started to cry in the background. It was soft and low, barely audible, but it reached through the waves of pain that was thrumming in Dewey’s head as loudly as the plane’s engines. He forced himself to open his eyes because he knew that sound—he had comforted it before countless times in the dark of night during thunderstorms; when they were younger and after the taunting remarks made by their local school bully; when they were even younger and he had to make up some nonsense answer about why their mom was no longer there and why she had left them all behind.

His vision wavered as he cast weary eyes around until they landed on a green blob. Dewey squinted, trying to push down the vertigo and nausea from the simple task of trying to concentrate, until the green of Louie’s hoodie blurred into focus and as well as his little brother’s puffy face. Louie liked to pretend he didn’t care about anything; that life was too short to stress out and worry about every little thing. He couldn’t fool his brothers though who had been with him ever since their Hatch Day, who had seen him break down before when life became too real, too overwhelming to push away and ignore. His cool façade had slipped off, crumbling into pieces like the wall of rocks that had come crashing down in the cave. Huey had wrapped his arms around his brother’s shoulders offering comfort and Louie, shaking like a leaf, had curled back into the embrace as if he wanted to disappear completely in it.

Across the plane, Dewey’s half-hooded gaze locked with his brothers’: first Louie who seized up in shock and then Huey who let out a gasp. And a little ways to their left, looking pale and standing more still than he had ever seen her before was Webby, who let out a strangled squeal when she noticed Dewey staring back.

Dewey lifted hand to wave at them, to let them know he was all right. He even had the perfect line ready to use, one he had stored away for a moment just like this: _the rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated._ Everyone would laugh at how him getting a little bump on his head had caused all this strife, but now that he had shown them he was fine, they could go home, pig out on ice cream and get back to adventuring tomorrow.

Only when he attempted to lift his hand, he seemed to have no energy so it flopped over Uncle Donald’s shoulder like a limp spaghetti noodle and Dewey stared at it in mild confusion. Even his tongue felt heavy and numb in his mouth. The only sound that emerged from his throat was a low moan of pain as his head lolled sideways into the crook of his uncle’s neck. Hands rubbed soothing circles into the back of his shirt as his uncle made worried clucking noises, the kind Dewey only recalled mother hens roosting on their nest would do.

 _Oh wow, this is bad,_ he thought eerily calm. Then he stopped thinking because that hurt too much, shut his eyes and let cool relief of darkness sweep the pain away.

oOo

Fire.

Red-hot and blazing, coiling around him like a snake and squeezing mercilessly.

Dewey struggled in vain to escape its burning clutches, but the snake only laughed, spewing out tongues of flames as it curled around him more tightly.

Quackfaster was there in front of him, garbed in a white toga, her graying hair done up in some extravagant, ancient Greek fashion. She was sitting at loom weaving away and he called out to her for help, but the snake slipped out its firey split tongue and sucked the words away.

Quackfaster stood up abruptly, tearing the unfinished tapestry from the loom. “No good! It’s no good!” she shrieked, waving it about, the shorn, frayed ends tailing forlornly about in the air. “It will never be whole if the pattern has shifted!” Her crazed eyes narrowed at him. “You cannot unravel the tapestry, young McDuck!”

The tapestry was thrust at his face and then sharp pin-pricks of pain blossomed in his head as Quackfaster started sewing him into it. He found his voice again and cried out for her to stop but she continued yelling at him. “Repair the pattern! Mend the bond!”

_It hurt._

His feathers felt scorched from the coiled flames of the snake that ensnared him and his head was pounding with pain from Quackfaster’s needle. Freeing one arm, Dewey reached up…

A hand wrapped around his wrist and firmly pushed it back down.

“Hold him still now,” came a voice that wasn’t Quackfaster and Dewey jolted out of his fevered dream.

He was lying on his back in a bed and there were dark figures all around him. One closer than the rest was leaning over him, pulling the stitches close on his head-wound.

“Dewey,” Uncle Donald breathed in relief as he tenderly rubbed his nephew’s small wrist, holding it down so the boy wouldn’t try and hit the doctor in the face again. “It’s almost over. You’re being so brave.”

There were so many questions Dewey wanted to ask, but he was _so tired._ The snake came slithering back around him, more gently than before, and dragged him down into the depths of slumber.

oOo

This time Dewey knew he was dreaming as he wandered aimlessly through the swirling clouds of white fog. Huey had once rented a book from a library about lucid dreaming and vigorously read a chapter out loud to his brothers each night. Dewey had found the concept of being able to literally follow your dream as it unfolded and sometimes change its setting and path vaguely fascinating, but he had never been able to put it into practice. Louie had claimed lucid dreaming just added more weight on the theory that the entire world was one big video game simulation and that was one way to hack into the code. Huey had flung the book at him and that had been the end of that.

Dewey roamed through the mist, aware he was looking for something, but had no clue as to what. He wished he had paid more attention to the book and its explanation on how to shift the setting you found yourself in because this was _boring._ There was nothing, utterly nothing except the oppressing thickness of the fog, no sound at all in this realm, and a horrible foreboding thought crossed his mind then: was he… _dead?_

Before he had time to properly panic, a flash of movement in the mist ahead caught his eye. There was someone there, someone shifting through the heavy enveloping whiteness.

“H-hello?” he called out, his voice sounding muffled like hearing the faintest tail end of an echo.

The figure darted away, their dim silhouette starting to fade into the fog and Dewey chased after them, frightened to be left alone in the bleak, white emptiness. He could never catch up, they were always a few feet ahead, skirting in and out of sight, and Dewey finally stopped in place, feeling tiny beads of frustration leak out of his eyes.

He wanted out of here, wherever it was. He wanted to see Uncle Donald and his brothers. Tell them not to blame themselves because it was his own stupid fault for getting hurt.

Soft footsteps sounded as the figure came back and treaded through the white veil until their features were just barely visible. Even from this distance, Dewey recognized the pilot goggles and brown bomber jacket from the photograph.

“Mom?” he whispered trying to understand.

If he was dead, did that mean she was dead too?

His mother turned slightly, revealing the long, thin object in her hands and though Dewey had never seen it before, he knew instantly what it was: the Spear of Selene.

The sight of it ignited a wave of bitter resentment Dewey didn’t know he possessed. “Is that why you left us?” he asked pointing at it. “Was it more important than _your own sons_ , your own family?”

He stood there trembling all over in the suffocating blanket of fog, years of pent up anger and hurt churning inside him.

Della Duck’s face was partially obscured by the mist. He couldn’t see her expression, only could hear the strong confidence in her words as she spoke, “My family always comes first. Always. I’ll protect you all no matter what the price. I’m not sorry.”

She whirled around, vanishing into the fog, and Dewey cried out lunging after her because he couldn’t lose her again. He plunged blindly through bleak whiteness arms outstretched but touched nothing because nothing was all that remained, and soon he too would be swallowed up and erased…

“I only regret one thing,” breathed his mother’s voice from behind him, sorrow heavy in her tone. “Missing out on you and your brothers grow up.”

Hands on his back gave him a mighty shove and Dewey yelled in alarm as he found himself suddenly spiraling wildly down a black abyss. As he tumbled beak over webbed feet he caught one last glimpse of the ethereal fog-world above him before it winked out of existence taking whatever ghosts that lay trapped there along with it.

oOo

“Dewey, Dewey, wake up, there’s a good lad,” someone was saying, shaking him gently by the shoulders.

Dewey stirred and slowly opened his eyes. They felt crusty like they hadn’t been opened in awhile. He stared at the sunlight filtering in through the white curtains of the room and felt like he had forgotten something important. But the last remnants of his dreams were pushed away by the elderly duck sitting by his bedside cupping his callused hands gently around his head and pulling him close to his chest. Groggy and disoriented, Dewey lay there, his face pressed against the fabric of his great-uncle’s shirt, hearing the fast-paced beating of his heart behind it. Was this a hug? Scrooge didn’t give hugs. He gave head-tousles and claps on the back, but never hugs. A noise of confused protest snuck out of his throat and he was swiftly released from the awkward embrace.

Scrooge cleared his throat and tried to compose himself. “Gave us the nip and tug there you did there, lad,” he said matter of fact. His tone sounded normal and unconcerned, yet did he not notice that he was fussing tediously with the bedcovers, tucking them up and under his nephew’s chin and smoothing the same wrinkle out over and over? “It was an infection of the wound. Doctor said it set in quickest he’s ever seen. You had us all scared out of our feathers for the past three days.”

Three days? Was that all it had been? Dewey’s entire body felt sluggish like he had been asleep for a hundred years like Rip Van Winkle. He stared at Scrooge taking in the forced quivering smile and the dark shadows under his great-uncle’s eyes, eyes that were overly-bright and red-rimmed.

“You look old,” he said, blurting out the first thing that popped into his mind.

For a second, Scrooge looked astonished, then furious, the color red slowly seeping back into the pasty white of his cheekbones, before he leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.

“I probably do, don’t I now?” Scrooge chuckled, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye. “Well, your uncle Donald looks ten times as worst. He’s hardly left your side these past few days. Barely ate or slept. Took me and Beakley threatening to lace his water with a sleeping draft before he decided to go get some rest. He’ll be over the moon to find your fever finally broke!”

“You were fighting,” Dewey said fuzzily recalling the memory of the bumpy plane ride. “Uncle said we were leaving.”

He cast his eyes around the room he was in. This wasn’t the room he shared with his brothers at the mansion nor was it one of their bunks on the houseboat. He was lying in a king-sized, four-poster bed complete with a lavender canopy. Faded posters of airplanes and rockets were plastered over the aging, yellow-striped wallpaper. A brass telescope sat on a tripod near the window where a reading nook had been set up, although it looked long abandoned now; the books lying untouched and dusty on the built-in bookshelf. Some inner instinct told him to look up so Dewey did, tilting his head back and viewing in wonder at the artwork of stars and constellations someone had painted on the ceiling.

“Look, lad, I’ve done a lot of things I’ve regretted in the past,” Scrooge sighed heavily. “Not entering you boys’ lives sooner is one of them. I’m not about to backtrack and lose what little family I have left. I’ve made amends with your uncle. He was in the right. I’m your children’s guardian when we’re off adventuring and your safety comes first before ancient secrets or treasure. I got distracted in that cave and you paid the price.”

_I only regret one thing._

Someone had told them that once but he couldn’t remember where or who. Dewey shook off the strange feeling of déjà vu. It didn’t matter right now.

“No, it’s not your fault!” he proclaimed, struggling to sit up but the room swayed dizzyingly like a see-saw with his efforts. “It’s mine. See, what happened was—”

“No, lad,” Scrooge cut him off and guiding him back onto the pillows firmly. “It won’t happen ever again on my watch. Not to any of you. Now I bet you’re famished, aren’t you? I’ll notify Beakley you’re awake.”

Dewey watched his uncle text out a message on his phone and waited until he had pressed the send button before asking. “This room was my mom’s, wasn’t it?”

He didn’t know how he knew but he did. It made sense sort of. His mom and Uncle Donald used to spend their childhood days in this mansion too. He had never seen his uncle’s room but then, Donald and Scrooge still were not entirely amiable towards each other, and his uncle found it more at home on the houseboat. That was how it always had been, right? His uncle loved the sea and basing everything he knew about her, which all congressed into one dinky, crumpled photograph, his mom had loved the skies.

“Aye, lad, it was,” Scrooge replied looking about, the space between his brow creasing slightly. “Truth be told, I’m not sure why I put you in here other than this room was in the wing furthest away from everyone and you needed peace and quiet.” Folding his hands neatly together in his lap, the old duck spoke hesitantly. “And perhaps… perhaps I felt it would ease your recovery more swiftly if you were closer to her. That she wouldn’t allow an old fool’s poor choice in judgment to fall blame upon her son.”

“So you think she’s dead then,” Dewey said, his stomach curling into painful knots.

Shouldn’t that be better though? Shouldn’t his mother being dead be better than being “gone” like Uncle Donald always told them? Because “gone” meant she had walked out of her sons’ lives and never looked back, couldn’t bother even writing a letter to check on them or let them know where she was. Being “gone” without a word from her in years meant she simply hadn’t cared about them at all.

Had she even wanted them in the first place?

“Oh, lad,” Scrooge murmured and Dewey realized he had voiced the last part out loud. “Your mother loved you and your brothers with all her heart,” a consoling hand brushed across the top of his head, stopping short of the stitches. “I’ve never seen her so happy the day you three were hatched. That’s why… yes, I believe she’s dead. She would never stay away from you three or her own brother for this long, not by her own choice.”

 _That’s not entirely true, is it,_ whispered a tiny voice in the back of Dewey’s head.

Dewey frowned, shaking his head, because he had nothing substantial to back up that thought and he didn’t know where it had come from.

Scrooge pulled his hand away quickly thinking his nephew’s irritation was directed at him. “A good meal always picks up the dampest of spirits, that’s what you’ll be needing. Blasted Beakley, where is that infernal housekeeper of mine?”

“Whipping up an infernal supper in your infernal kitchen,” snapped a brisk, no-nonsense tone as Mrs. Beakley pushed open the door and strode over to the duckling’s bedside, setting down a silver tray on top Dewey’s knees covered by the blankets.

Scrooge and Dewey stared at the horrified unison at the contents of the tray: a bowl of mushy brown goo that could have passed as oatmeal if not for the black seeds dotted all throughout it causing it to take on a gelatin-like appearance, a cup of murky, steaming reddish-brown liquid that gave off a rich, earthy scent, and almost as an after-thought a tiny container of some kind of nut butter.

“Tarnishing _turadh_ , Beakley! What happened to good old fashioned lemon-noodle soup?” Scrooge shouted taking the words right out of Dewey’s mouth.

“He’s been spoon-fed nothing but that for three whole days!” Beakley shot back, pointing at the duckling. “He’s getting to be all feathers and bones and I won’t have him wasting away under my beak! This gruel is a mixture of hemp seeds, chia seeds, flax seeds and almond milk guaranteed to put some fat back on him!”

It sounded as disgusting as it looked and Dewey wanted to throw it out the window, but Beakley swiveled her head sharply at him like she could read his mind, so he snatched up the bowl and spoon instead.

“Looks really good! Always nice to try something new, right, Scrooge?” he laughed weakly and forced himself to swallow a spoonful half-afraid Beakley would do it herself if he hesitated too long.

It wasn’t as bad as he initially thought, but it had no flavor so barely choking it down, he managed to cough out, “Where’s the sugar?”

“Sugar is not suitable for someone who has been staving off a raging fever for three days straight,” Beakley said disapprovingly. “Also, if taken in excessive quantities as children consume daily, it can grow to be as addictive as nicotine or caffeine.” The corners of her beak turned up in a smirk as she threw a saucy look at Scrooge. “It’s best to wean them off now when they’re young. Can you imagine Webby if she was allowed sugar, ohohoho.”

Dewey, who was under the impression that sugar was the main staple of Webby’s diet really did choke this time and reached for the odd-smelling red tea. A mistake. It reminded him of the time Huey had tricked him into eating a mudpie. Then the flavor reached the roof of his mouth, entered the back of his nostrils, overpowering him with the woody, earthy smell and he ended up sneezing and gagging on the vile liquid.

“Good heavens, Beakley, we want to get him on the road to recovery not regress him another three days!” Scrooge yelled as he pounded the palm of his hand on his nephew’s back helping him cough up whatever concoction he had just drunk.

“Rooibos tea is a medicinal, herbal beverage aimed to cure headaches, bone weakness, and helps boosts the immune system, something which this young one has been sorely lacking,” Mrs. Beakley said, crossing broad arms across her chest in her defense.

“Can you not just bring a cup o’ milk and honey like any normal housekeeper?” Scrooge asked in exasperation.

“Cow’s milk is highly inflammatory to the digestive system. And as I keep reminding you, _sir,_ ” Beakley bit out, narrowing her eyes at her employer. “You didn’t hire me to be just a ‘normal housekeeper’.”

“Aaah,” Scrooge let out a half-frustrated, half-nervous strangled cry, but shut his beak tightly after that, obviously not wanting his divulge any further information on this topic in front of his nephew.

It was alright though. Dewey and his brothers had a string of theories with each other on their own opinions of Mrs. Breakley. They ran from assassin ninja to British intelligence spy to jailbreak convo grandma on the run seeking refuge from the law in McDuck Manor. Yeah, that last one was totally Louie’s.

“Can I… take a nap?” Dewey asked once he could breathe properly again, pushing the tray onto the bedside table. He wasn’t really tired, he just wanted them to leave him alone. He had seen three pairs of familiar eyes peeking from the slightly ajar door and knew that Beakley wouldn’t allow them in here this soon. She would most likely spew some excuse about his health and well-being, but he wanted to talk to them, he _needed_ to talk to them, because they were probably feeling as guilty as Uncle Scrooge at this point.

He settled back against the pillows and tried to make himself look as frail and vulnerable as possible. It must have looked like crap because it worked like a charm. The two adult ducks’ eyes softened and they each gave their farewells. Scrooge reached out and gave his usual head-tousle, saying that he would tell his uncle Donald that he was awake as soon as Donald himself came out of a much-needed sleep. Mrs. Beakley declared she was going back to the kitchen to whip up some coconut fat bombs. (Dewey didn’t want to know, he really didn’t).

He shut his eyes and pretended to be sleeping as he heard the door close behind them. Ten seconds went by, then the door opened again and three pairs of webbed feet padded quietly across the room over to his bed.

“Dewey?” came a whisper right by his ear, light and female. Webby.

The mattress dipped slightly as two weights climbed on top and made their way up to where he lay, one stopping by his feet, the other by his left side. His brothers.

Dewey kept still and made his breathing as shallow as possible even as they poked and prodded at him.

“He’s dead,” Louie said in a flat, monotone voice.

“He is not! We just saw him talking to Scrooge and Grammy!” Webby shrieked painfully loud near his head.

“Maybe he slipped back into a fever-coma?” Huey said sounding worried. He began fidgeting with the tip of his brother’s foot that was poking out from underneath one of the twisted covers.

“Dewey?” Webby asked again. She must have been pretty close because the scent of chocolate wafted off her. Maybe Mrs. Beakley didn’t feed her sugar, but Webby found ways to stash some, Dewey could believe that.

“If he’s dead, I call dibs on Pokemon cards and comic book collection,” Louie said.

Dewey twitched. That little… If he hadn’t seen him crying on the plane, he could almost believe he didn’t care.

“You know I read a story once where this kid got hit in the head with a Frisbee, got knocked out and woke up fifteen years later,” Huey said, still nervously fidgeting with the tip of Dewey’s webbed foot.

“You mean he didn’t have to go to school and take any tests for fifteen years? Sounds awesome,” Louie said.

“No, it’s not!” Huey burst out, his anxiety rising. “He missed out on his entire childhood, his awkward puberty phase and rebellious teenage years! His siblings and friends all had grown up and left him behind! And because his mother believed he was still capable of absorbing knowledge while in the coma, she put headphones on him and made him listen to Bach and Radetsky. Also, she never gave up hope that he would wake up one day and thought it would be beneficial for him to learn another language, so she also played him every level of Swedish the library had on hand. So when he actually broke out of the coma, he had forgotten English and all he could knew was music.” Huey’s toe-fidgeting was becoming painful. “He had to leave the country and live in Finland where his only job was a traveling door-to-door violinist!”

There was a long pause until Louie broke it, “Okay, you’re making that up.”

Dewey was pleased to hear there was a note of uncertainty in it.

“Come on, classical music isn’t that bad,” Webby with her seven years of cello defended. “Although, pretty sure it doesn’t pay that well.”

“Yeah, Dewey’s tone-deaf,” Louie said. “He likes to sing a lot, but he can’t carry a tune to save his life.”

“He can’t play an instrument either,” Huey said half-distracted. Fidget, fidget, fidget. Dewey’s toe was going to look like a blueberry at this rate. “Well, besides the drums. But they got mysteriously lost last time Uncle Donald took the houseboat out on a fishing trip.”

“Ooh! If he gets stuck in a coma, I volunteer to teach him the cello!” Webby shrieked excited. “And my grammy knows contacts in the British Symphonic Orchestra so he won’t be out of a job when he wakes up!”

“I’m not in a coma!” Dewey exclaimed sitting upright so fast the room spun dizzily around him and a dull headache sparked in his temple, but it was worth their reactions.

Webby gave a shrill scream of shock before laughing and clapping delightedly. Huey toppled over backwards headfirst off the bed with an undignified squeak. Louie stayed where he was, his eyelids half-hooded in a frown.

“I knew you were faking all along, you faker!” he cried giving him a hard shove in the chest.

Dewey fell backwards onto the pillows feeling breathless and light-headed, a warm feeling of contentment swelling up in his chest as he reveled in his surroundings: family, home, safety.

And he had almost lost all of that following his foolish thirst for adventure and danger.

A somber feeling swept over him. “I’m sorry for the cave-in, you guys,” he said quietly. “It was my fault.”

His brothers and Webby all shared a concerned glance between them.

“It’s actually everyone’s fault,” Huey spoke up. “I mean, we were all shouting pretty loudly…”

“No,” Dewey said, deterring his brother’s attempt to share the blame. “I was the one who convinced you all to go exploring by ourselves.”

oOo

_Four days prior…_

Now that Scrooge was back in the questing business so to speak, he had started to receive a load of emails, phone calls, and letters about various unexplained phenomena or ancient mysteries that had yet to be unraveled. Scrooge had put together his own team of people to go through the mountain of requests he had been sent and pick a handful of investigations that sounded like they’d be worth his time. He wasn’t the youngest duck in Duckburg after all.

One of these such requests happened to be from the Midwest of North America. Locals had been seeing ghostly glowing lights originating from deep within underground caverns every night recently and had reached out to Scrooge for assistance. It hadn’t been on the top of Scrooge’s to-do list, but he really shouldn’t have left such a tempting pile of opened letters on top of his desk with a household of overly-curious nephews who had a tendency to snoop.

Dewey had found the letter first. “Ghosts!” he had cried after reading its contents out loud, pumping his fist in the air.

“Aliens!” Huey had exclaimed, his eyes shining wide-eyed and practically drooling with excitement.

“Top-secret government technology they claim doesn’t exist,” Louie smirked giving a thumbs up that he was on board.

It really didn’t take much convincing to get Scrooge to cave. The triplets had found out he caved rather easily after a couple of tries on most things as long as they were in reason. Maybe it was because he could afford practically anything, Scrooge was always ready in to ludicrous demands such as pet tigers or a miniature train track to get around the manor more quickly. There was always a catch though. Scrooge was determined to teach his nephews the lesson of responsibility. So if they wanted, for example, each their own personal jet, they were going to get a maximum of eight hours of flight simulations each day for months before even so much as looking at one. They were going to have to master the knowledge of their engine and wing functions in case of emergencies and being stranded on a desert island with no one but themselves. Oh and Launchpad was going to be their flying instructor. Scrooge had told them the last part with a satisfied grin and had exited the room cackling madly. They had quickly dropped their demands for a jet not too long after that.

The point was despite his gruff exterior, Scrooge was quite soft-hearted towards the nephews he had missed out on ten years of their lives and was trying to make up for it. So if they wanted to investigate a case he thought mediocre at best, he really didn’t make a big fuss about it being a waste of time.

They had flown to the location taking Webby and Uncle Donald with them, and literally the first thing their uncle had done walking off the landing pad was get frightened of a little lizard crawling over his foot. To be fair, Donald claimed he thought it was a snake, but he still ended up twisting his ankle in his blind panic and was forced to stay back on the plane with Launchpad.

“I swear, Scrooge, if any one of them gets hurt while on your watch…” Donald growled, trying his best to look intimidating while one badly-swollen leg was propped up and an ice pack bandaged around it.

“Don’t be a nanny-duck, Donald. They’re old enough to look after themselves. You need to trust them more,” Scrooge had rolled his eyes.

The four young ducklings’ chest had each puffed out in pride that Scrooge thought so highly of them. But Donald had insisted that Scrooge promise which he did albeit offended.

“Of course I’ll look after them!” Scrooge spread his arms wide in exasperation. “Do you really think all I care about is treasure and adventure?”

By the way Donald’s eyes narrowed into slits and mumbled something like “crazy old man” under his breath it was obvious he did.

With their spirits high and sense of adventure set free, the four young ducklings and their elderly guardian set off into the underground caverns with their gear ready to get to the bottom of this mystery—literally.

They actually solved it fairly quickly.

After travelling half an hour down multiple passages and low outcropping ceilings of rock, they finally stumbled out into an enormous cavern. Above their heads the dome arched up about a hundred feet or so to host home to dozens and dozens of giant stalactites hanging down. The smooth walls that curved around were glowing with a clear, white light that slowly changed to a luminous green. In. Out. In. Out. The colors weaved back and forth in a breaths pace. Small droplets of water dripped off the stalactites plunging to the cave-floor below, the sound reverberating all over with a heavy intensity giving off a feel like the entire cavern was alive and breathing.

While the ducklings gaped in awe, Scrooge waddled over closer to the cave wall to inspect it.

“Fascinating!” the old duck had exclaimed, adjusting his spectacles. “It appears what we have here, young ones, is a colony of glowworms feeding on a yet unknown species of phosphorescent fungi.”

The ducklings had gathered around and marveled at the sight until it dawned on them that there would be no paranormal investigating, close encounters of the third kind, or uncovering government conspiracies surrounding confidential technology.

“So we flew all the way here to just see some creepy-crawlies feast on cave sludge?” Dewey had cried more than a little outraged. _“Bo-ring!”_

“We are explorers on an expedition who have stumbled upon a new and undiscovered organism, lad,” Scrooge corrected. “I’d highly hesitate to call that boring.”

“Where’s my ghostly possession, my alien abduction, my fighting off the men in the black to thwart their evil plot against innocent civilians?” Dewey had fumed. “If I wanted to watch bugs for entertainment I’d stare at Huey’s ant-farm all day!”

“Hey,” Huey said shooting his brother an annoyed look. “We still haven’t solved anything. The locals said they see these glowing lights come outside the cave at night. Glowworms can’t do that, can they?”

Scrooge didn’t seem particularly bothered by this little fact. He had already starting pulling out things from his backpack: a notepad, a camera, and several clear culture dishes. “We’ll need to document this all properly for evidence and gather samples to show that we discovered this first,” he declared completely engrossed in the task at hand. “Stay close, children, and watch how a pro does the job!”

Dewey threw a disgusted look at the back of his great-uncle’s head and motioned for the others to follow him as he did an about turn and strode off in the opposite direction.

“Where are we going and should we really leave Scrooge all by himself like that?” Webby asked throwing a concerned look behind them.

“I’ve figured it out!” Dewey proclaimed, his small forehead furrowed in determination. “This place is a red herring. Whatever is hiding in these caverns just _wants_ you to think the fungi and glowworms are the cause for those lights. But we know better, don’t we, gang?”

“We do?” Huey repeated raising both eyebrows.

“We’re going to uncover the real reason of those lights and take all the glory for ourselves! That’ll show Scrooge and Uncle Donald who the true explorers are. Onward!” Dewey cried, charging forward into another passage.

Okay, so in hind sight, it had been a really stupid thing to wander off in an unknown cavern with no plan other than to just walk around until they came across something out of the ordinary, and if Dewey had been by himself, he shuddered to think of what would have happened. So he thanked his lucky stars later that he had Huey with him who was carrying the bag with the walkie-talkies, and Webby who had the bag with the first-aid kit slung across her shoulders and kept marking the walls of the twisting passageways with chalk so they wouldn’t lose their bearings.

And Louie, who unwittingly discovered the true origin of the glowing lights, despite the fact that he wasn’t looking for it in the first place.

_Ping, ping, ping! Fwoooosh! Ka-ching! Ping, ping, ping! Pew-pew!_

“We’re in the middle of a real-life adventure. Must you really play that right now?” Huey asked glaring at the GameBoySD in his brother’s hands.

“Shhh, I’m in the middle of Super Star’s Ultra True Arena,” Louie said, tongue sticking sideways out of his beak as he concentrated. “This is life and death right now.”

“It will be if I take that out of your spindly, little fingers and smash it on the ground,” Dewey threatened eager to take out his growing agitation of finding nothing but bare rock walls and more empty caverns for the last half hour on the nearest target.

He hated being proven wrong and he didn’t much enjoy the idea of returning to Scrooge empty-handed and being treated like a child with too much imagination.

“You can try but you can’t touch the Lou-Master,” Louie sung out, his eyes never once leaving the screen as he leaned his weight against a giant boulder.

The boulder, perhaps deciding after countless decades of solitude and quietness, that it was not pleased with this loud invasion of privacy heaved a mighty groan of protest and promptly rolled away from its feathered dead weight. Louie let out a startled yelp as he fell flat on his back on the cold, hard floor, his hands still clutching the GameBoy. A series of sad little _dwoop-dee-dwoops_ emitted from the game’s speakers announcing the player’s defeat.

“Noooooooooooo!” Louie howled, flinging one arm over his face as he kicked and cried on the cave floor’s uneven, rocky surface, uncaring of the velocity of the noise he was making or the warning tremors that ran up the sides of the passageway.

 _“Shhh-shhh-shhh-shhh,”_ whispered the inner heart of the caverns almost consolingly as the sound drifted out from a small crevice the boulder had revealed when it had rolled away.

“What was that?” Huey asked looking very creeped-out.

Even Louie had stopped his cater-wailing to sit upright and cast a disturbing gaze at the small Y-shaped hole in the cave-wall.

The faintest of rustling could be heard if they all strained their ears hard enough. Then a long, drawn-out, gusty sigh followed, _“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh,”_ as if the cave was yawning and waking up after a long period of sleep.

“Aha, my ghost theory is confirmed, I bet you!” Dewey whooped flinging himself at the small crevice that was big enough to allow one hand clutching his cell phone in. “Who found the greatest discovery now, Scrooge?”

He pressed the camera button, turned the flash setting on and took a picture just as Webby shrieked, “No, wait! Don’t you guys watch movies of what happens to people who stick their heads in small spaces in caves?!”

The only warning they received was the ruffling of air before a swarm of small black bodies burst forth from the crevice with the force of a miniature tornado.

They ducklings all screamed as they tried to flee from the swirling prison of leathery wings but they kept tripping and bumping into each other just as blind as the bats were at the moment. The flash had no doubt startled them and now judging by the frenzied chirping, the bats’ own echo-location was being thrown into chaos by the four figures caught up in their midst who kept running every which way and yelling loudly enough to wake the dead.

A wingtip brushed Dewey’s cheek as a bat fluttered past and he caught of brief glimpse of its under-belly: glowing white then green. He barely had time to finish the train of thought that the bats must feed on the glowworms that flourished on the fungi that grew on the cave-walls, because soon a shower of pebbles began raining down upon his head.

Then the pebbles became stones and the stones became boulders and then the entire cave was roaring its displeasure at the unwanted intruders as the passageway came crashing down around them.

“Grab the person closest to you and run!” Huey yelled from ahead.

Dewey felt a hand wrap around his own, saw the flash of pink—then something hard and sharp smacked him across the forehead and sent him flying sideways.

“Dewey!” he heard Webby shriek as their grip was pulled apart.

“Dewey!” he heard his brothers cry his name but their voices were soon lost in the thunderous booming of rock slabs hitting the floor and stacking on each other like a badly-played game of Tetris.

Vision blurring and breathing more heavily than he knew he should, Dewey edged backwards away from the center of cave-in where the rocks were still falling. Something wet was trickling down the side of his head and he told himself it was sweat to stop himself from panicking. He crawled until he had no more energy to crawl anymore and propped himself upright against a pile of rock-rubble, his whole body still shaking in shock.

“Dewey! Are you alright? Answer me!” Huey’s voice called as softly as possible from behind the now-blocked passageway in an effort to not start another cave-in. “Dewey!”

Dewey swallowed back the dirt and grime he had gathered in his throat and tried to think of something witty. But all that came out of his beak was a quivering, “Y-yeah…”

“Omigosh, thank goodness!” came Huey’s relieved sputtering. “Okay, listen. Stay where you are. Don’t move. I’m gonna call Scrooge on the walkie-talkie. Don’t worry. We’ll get you out. No matter what happens, try to stay awake.”

That was the last thing Dewey remembered before blacking out.

He had never been good at following orders.

oOo

Dewey stared up at his brothers’ and Webby’s worried expressions and realized he must have spaced off.

“Well, at least we solved the mystery, right?” he tried lightening the mood. “You could have put that on my tombstone: Young McDuck Heir—Struck Down By A Rock!”

Louie slugged him in the face with a pillow. It brushed the stitching and Dewey let out a strangled screech of pain.

“You don’t get to make jokes!” Louie yelled, his eyes were overly-bright like Scrooge’s had been and his hands were trembling as they fisted the insides of his hoodie pockets tightly. “Not about this! You almost died, ok! All because of a stupid boulder…”

“Oh, hey,” Dewey said quietly as he realized why Louie had been crying on the plane—not just out of fear. “It wasn’t your fault, Lou. I’m the one who snapped the picture and startled all those bats.”

“We wouldn’t have found the stupid hole in the first place if I had been distracted playing a dumb video game and leaned against that boulder!” Louie cried, his voice rising along with his distress level. “Why do we have to go on adventures anyway? Adventures just take people away! Mom, you…” His small body gave a tiny shudder at the last part and he dropped his head on Dewey’s chest taking comfort in the sound of his brother’s steady heartbeat.

Dewey lifted a hand and placed it on top of his brother’s head where he began stroking the downy soft feathers like he remembered Uncle Donald doing. Beside him, Huey reached out and did the same. His eyes caught Dewey’s and they shared a concerned look between them. Louie hadn’t done this in years. Not since they were very little and all three triplets slept in the same bunk together.

“I’m not going to die anytime soon, I promise,” Dewey swore.

He looked up. Webby was smiling tearfully at them all. She must have blamed herself too, he realized. She had been holding his hand when they had been ripped apart by the rock-fall. He motioned for her to join them on the bed which she did, clambering up and curling her arms around the three of them. They stayed that way for a long time, even as the golden rays of the sun faded and the blue hues of twilight crept through the window: four ducklings wrapped up in a fuzzy, warm embrace of arms and legs, breathing in and out together as one.

Dewey’s eyelids began to droop as tiredness set in.

“This was Mom’s room, you know,” he murmured out loud although he was pretty sure the others were asleep by now.

“I know,” came a low voice and Dewey turned to his right to see Uncle Donald had come in very quietly at some point and was sitting in the chair by the side of the bed.

His uncle looked just as haggard as Scrooge had, but his beak was curved into a soft smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. They were lit with sadness and worry and Dewey’s heart felt heavy that he had been the cause of so much pain for everyone.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, a lump catching in his throat. “Don’t blame Scrooge. It was my—”

Donald held up one hand to stop him. “No. He was responsible for your kids’ safety. He knows that.” Donald’s eyes flashed briefly in anger before he pushed that emotion down. “He’s right though: I need to trust you kids more. Maybe if I had, you wouldn’t have been so eager to wander off and prove yourselves. I just…” Donald took off his sailor’s cap and began wringing it nervously in his hands. “I just don’t want to lose you…”

“Like you lost Mom?” Dewey finished.

Donald scrunched his eyes closed for several seconds, a grimace etched on his face.

“What happen—”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Dewey, not now,” Donald said opening his eyes and gazing at him sorrowfully.

Dewey wondered what would happen if he mentioned the Spear of Selene out loud but he decided his uncle had been given plenty enough opportunities for a heart attack the last couple of days. Besides, the Spear of Selene was another mystery waiting to be solved, for the ducklings to prove themselves, not only him and Webby but Huey and Louie too, just as soon as more information was uncovered.

“Just promise me one thing,” Donald said, resting one hand on his nephew’s forehead mindful of the stitching.

“What?”

Donald took in the sight of all four of the ducklings cuddled together in a cocoon of blankets, his eyes glossing over as if he was remembering another time, another instance where he had done the same long ago.

“Uncle Donald?”

He blinked, snapping back to the present and smiled down at Dewey who was crinkling his face at him in a confused, sleepy manner. He began brushing the sweeping, feathery bangs to one side gently, almost hypnotically, humming a lullaby his sister had taught him before she left, until his nephew was on the last vestiges of wakefulness.  

Donald only spoke his request when he saw Dewey’s eyes slide shut and his breathing even out.

“Don’t grow up too quickly.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, if you didn't see me ramble on at the beginning, I wrote this because ch 7 of Radar's Ducktober fic gave me many sleepless nights pondering on what happened. How did the cave-in start? What were they doing there in the first place? Ooh, if Donald is SO MAD at Scrooge right now wait til he sees his nephew's gaping head wound! Then of course, I kept thinking about what happened after. Like dayum, everyone's going to be so worried! I wonder what their reactions are! And so I started to write tentatively, and this all came pouring out. I can't write a short fic to save my life.
> 
> Again, this plot bunny was inspired by RadarsTeddyBear And I enjoyed every moment writing this. I love reading your McDuck family drabbles!
> 
> So, this is my first work for this series. I may write more as the plot is unveiled on the show. Thank you to everyone who worked on the reboot. I love it more than the original. To those who took time to read this, if you would be so kind to review (fav parts, idk), it would bring me immense joy. (I'm on tumblr if you want to say hi). And go read Ducktober bc it's awesome!


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